As the Coin Falls—Heads
by ScribeOfRED
Summary: Every side of a coin has another side. - Myron Scholes


**A/N: For ArtisticRainey's TAG Brawl Challenge. Companion piece and flip side to SpaceSpirit's "As the Coin Falls—Tails."**

* * *

John feels cold.

He knows he isn't. He knows it's impossible for his internal temperature to be low enough for him to experience a chill when he's standing in the middle of a sun-scorched beach on a subtropical island wearing an insulated uniform. He is aware of the brisk offshore breeze only because it's stroking humid fingers over his face and through his hair—the usual blast furnace heat is utterly absent. Or, rather, it's still there, sticking his uniform to his body with sweat, but he's only aware of the effect, not the heat itself.

Still. He's risking sunstroke if he doesn't retreat to the climate controlled villa soon. A few more minutes, five, maybe, then he'll go up.

He doesn't want to go up. Not if it means he'll run into Gordon.

Gordon, whose foolish, impulsive, _reckless_ behavior is a threat to everyone he encounters. Gordon, whose headstrong nature refuses to let him adhere to the necessary chain of command. Gordon, who lacks foresight when lives, including his own, are at stake.

Gordon, who, for all his emotional intuition, possesses a childish tendency to mercilessly pester people whose only wish is to be left _alone_.

Because of course Gordon has sought him out. Of course he feels the need to talk about whatever he perceives to have happened today.

"You want a drink, John?"

Of course he brings a peace offering.

A bottle appears in his line of sight, hovering in front of his chest. "Come on," Gordon says, "I know you want it."

Not really, although the streaks of condensation clinging tantalizingly to the brown glass make him realize he is thirsty—just not thirsty for anything Gordon's had his fingers on. He shoves Gordon's arm away until it's on the fringe of his personal space again. "I know I don't."

"Come on—"

"I'm not in the mood." Really not in the mood.

"For a drink?"

John looks Gordon in the eye, aware that words spoken directly to his brother hurt worse than being brushed off. "For you."

Sure enough, the smile he gets in return is brittle at best, but it takes more than one blow to knock Gordon over. It's a process of hitting weak point after weak point—easy enough, if time-consuming.

Gordon has the cheek to tip the bottle in his direction, ever the infuriating little brother. The hiss of the bottle opening makes John's brain itch.

"Virg thinks it's going to rain later."

"We're going to talk about the weather?" Really? Is it not obvious that he wants to be alone? What does he have to do, stick a _go away, Gordon_ sign on his back? "That's a first."

"Apparently a lot of fists happened today."

There's an edge to Gordon's words that makes the hair on John's neck bristle. A lot of firsts? How dare this... this _boy_ tell him about firsts? He has no idea what he's talking about.

Wind hits his face, but he can't tell what temperature it is in relation to himself or the air around him. His ability to process external stimulation seems to have vanished entirely—and he won't get it back until Gordon _leaves_. "It wasn't my first."

"It was." And so certain, too. Brat.

"It wasn't." Far from it. "In case you don't understand what first means, it tends to be something, in this case an experience, that comes before all others—"

"Good to know," Gordon drawls.

"Yes, and you should know that I've almost lost people's lives up in _Five_ before." And if he's admitting that, might as well go the whole distance. "In fact, I have lost people's lives up in _Five_ —watched them die right in front of me. So today wasn't a first at all, and it wasn't any different."

Gordon tips the bottle, eyes darting away like they do every time he tries to come up with a counterargument. "Ah, well, no. Down here it's definitely different."

"No, it's _not_ —" He swallows sharp-edged words, forces muscles to systematically unclench from fingertips that still feel slick with blood all the way up through to his shoulders. He rolls his head back, letting the swell and crash and hiss of water pounding on sand drown out his thoughts as he stares at the trailing wisps of clouds above them. Such little, delicate things, but they have the power to shield them from the direct rays of the sun. Still. "I don't think it's going to rain."

"Well," Gordon says with a nonchalant, know-it-all shrug, "that will be the second time you're wrong today, then."

That kind of immaturity doesn't deserve an answer. Maybe if he ignores Gordon long enough, he'll get the hint this time. For such a sensitive soul, he can be criminally obtuse when he wants to be. Like earlier, when there was a woman—a woman _bleeding out_ under his hands, which... He rubs his thumb over his fingertips. Yeah, they're still slick with what his senses claim is blood but logic rationalizes is sweat, since that is what's dripping down his sides and pooling in the small of his back.

Definitely isn't blood. Can't be. He washed his hands six times between reaching the surface of the cave system and touching down on the island. He's heard of this happening, saw Virgil go through it a few years ago, but did not think it would happen to him. He thought he was prepared, thought he could handle it.

The invisible but all too real stains sullying his hands prove how wrong he was. He expects they'll fade with time—that's what Virgil told him, anyway—but they will always be there.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as Gordon takes another pull from the bottle. So unconcerned, so unmoved, so unbothered by the events of the day. Jaded toward the lives he's supposed to save. Live or die, John doubts Gordon's reaction alters much these days.

"Good thing Virg arrived in time to save her, though, huh?" Gordon's words are heavy with contempt, and John hears the silent _because you failed so spectacularly_. "Otherwise your mistake... Well. It wouldn't just be a mistake, would it? It would be—"

"I didn't make a _mistake_." He glares at Gordon— _don_ _'_ _t you dare say it_ —and too late remembers Gordon thrives off reactions. It takes a concentrated effort to return his gaze to the rolling ocean. "We can talk about this at debrief. I'd prefer not to go over it again."

"Go over what? Your mistake?"

"It wasn't a mistake. If any mistakes were made, they were by you." Instantly he regrets the words—petty arguments are where little brothers excel.

Sure enough, "For what? For just being there or for trying to save a life?"

"The former," John says through gritted teeth.

The half-empty bottle gets shoved into the pressure-sensitive expanse of John's personal space. "I'm the one that's more experienced down here, you know that. If you had listened to me, that woman wouldn't have been in danger at all. At _all_ , John."

"No. You're right. She would have been dead." And the dead are in no danger at all.

Gordon puts on a good show, all puffed up, growling indignation as he flounders for something to say. A pity there's no one here to witness it that cares, but it doesn't matter because

Fact: he's run the scenario through two dozen times while counting off every millisecond, which proves that

Fact: no single action or combination of actions could have taken them across the cavern floor, not when

Fact: they could not determine with one hundred percent certainty which sections of the cavern and its surrounding tunnels would collapse and when, and even so

Fact: the tunnel Gordon wanted to use for evac was too long since

Fact: two point three miles in one hundred forty-seven seconds on foot with a patient bleeding out from an arterial wound was an impossible distance to cross because

Fact: there wasn't enough time.

There wasn't enough time, and the thick coat of blood clinging like gloves to his scrubbed-clean hands is the only proof he needs.

Beside him, Gordon straightens, presence firming until it exudes tangible pressure against John's entire side. "She wouldn't have been dead," he declares, soft at first but gaining strength with each word. "I said we should have gone down that tunnel."

"Right. Go down the tunnel with the mouth that was threatening to collapse. Good idea."

"It was a better idea than waiting in the cavern that _did_ collapse—"

"It was supposed to be the safer option. Scott agreed."

Gordon whirls on him, flinging his arms in a loose, wide arc that comes dangerously close to smashing glass into cheekbone. Displaced air buffets his face, maybe hot, maybe cold, maybe it doesn't matter. "I don't care if Scott agreed," Gordon snaps, "it was _me_ down there with you, not him. I made the proper checks, John, I always do. But you overrode me in favor of staying put."

"It was the safer option at the time." And the simulations he's run in his head prove it's still the safer option.

"Well, look how that turned out!" Gordon glances over his shoulder, as though trying to prove a point. It does: that they both made it back home alive and even uninjured. Gordon must see something else, because he turns back with lips that curl unpleasantly. "Wow, Mr. Safety, good going there with that one—"

It takes several seconds for the sensation of hand striking chest to register. John makes himself hold Gordon's stare instead of looking down at his stinging hand, bloody fingers twisted into clean fabric, like he wants to. He can't afford to show any more cracks, not when he's frustrated at himself for letting Gordon dig his way under his skin already.

 _Stupid_.

"I'm not doing this." He releases Gordon, turns his back on him, and marches through heavy, coarse sand toward the path that leads up to the villa. There is a definite change in temperature as sunlight hits him full-force in the back, from the crown of his head to the soles of his boots, and for the first time since he and Gordon rappelled into that cave, he's able to perceive what that change is. Heat blooms across his shoulders like a sunburn, but the scrape of feet against sand and a hand latching onto his arm distract him before it can penetrate deeper.

"Where are you going?" Gordon demands, yanking him around with surprising force. Sometimes he forgets those broad shoulders aren't just for show. "We're not done here until you admit that I was right. You should have taken us down that route—"

"No, Gordon." John twists himself neatly out of his brother's grasp and draws himself to his full height, only to wonder why he's bothering. Neither height nor authority has ever cowed Gordon before. "I'm not playing this game of superiority with you over a woman's life."

"Superiority? Are you _serious_?" Gordon waves his arms around, always one to physically expel indignation. "Says the guy that thought, oh, even though I've only done this about ten times, I'm right because I'm older and smarter and a control freak—"

"You're putting words into my mouth." Even though they're shaded from the being-shrouded-with-clouds sun, the backs of his shoulders flare hot with heat that strikes straight to the bone, and he sucks in a shuddering breath. "I did what I thought was right."

"Without even consulting me." Gordon turns, lifting the bottle, but instead of drinking, he rubs the back of his hand over his lips before spinning back. "I get it if it's not as your brother, but as your _co_ -worker we should have at least weighed up the options together. Instead, you just brushed me off!"

John fights to keep his voice and expression neutral. "I did what I thought was right."

Gordon's lips peel back in a snarl, exposing the glinting white canines beneath. "What about what I thought was right? Is that just automatically wrong because it's _me_? You should have trusted me to know what I was doing."

"I'd prefer to be sure than to take risks." There's a reason he monitors _Five_ and Gordon doesn't.

"Right, to bet on yourself is to be sure, and to bet on me is to take a risk."

And that self-centered nature is a big part of the reason. "We're not horses and this is not a competition—"

"I _know_ that, John!" Gordon yells, and in the echo of his words John hears a boy of seven screaming his frustrations out over an inability to grasp a concept in math, a boy of thirteen irate at being called out on a flaw in his technique, a boy of nineteen confirming the doctors' declarations that he would never walk again. Gordon says he knows, but there is always a delay between his speaking the words and his decision to either accept them or rise above them.

John watches Gordon take a deep breath, waiting to see where his little brother stands today. "You almost lost a woman's life today—"

"We," John corrects, even as he sighs, disappointed but not surprised Gordon isn't ready to step up.

"Yeah, whatever, _we_ did, and you're standing there like everything went fine—"

"Everything did go fine. We lost no one." And as Gordon always says, isn't the result more important than the methods? "I don't see why you always dwell like this."

" _Always_?" A wicked sharp note John's learned to be wary of sheers the edge of Gordon's voice into a blade. "How the hell would you even know? Are you ever here to see?"

Okay, you know what, no. If Gordon's so far gone he's resorting to falsehoods in an attempt to prove his point, there's no way he's continuing this discussion. He turns away, only to find himself being wrenched around again.

"Besides," Gordon continues, hand tightening with bruising force around his arm, "why is dwelling a _bad_ thing? Is it, oh, I don't know, human?"

Heat explodes through John's core, too hot, too fast, and it's easy to rip out of Gordon's grasp. "Get off me."

"Aren't we supposed to dwell?" Gordon asks, tilting his head just far enough to convey his insincerity as a sneer slashes across his lips. "Won't it make us learn from our _mistakes_?"

"I didn't make a mistake." Not a mistake, it wasn't a mistake.

"You did," Gordon says, tossing the bottle aside, where it shatters against stone with the condemning weight of a gavel. Then Gordon's hands are bunched in his uniform, and when did he close the distance? "You made a mistake and she almost died. You're not used to your actions having those sorts of consequences, huh? You're used to floating in your impenetrable palace—"

John pulls against Gordon's wrists but can't achieve any leverage to dislodge them. "Dammit, Gordon—"

"—with not a care in the world! But _this_ time you got real, human blood on your hands." Amber eyes flicker down, as though the blood is there for the whole world to witness. There's something vicious in gaze when he raises it again. "I would have thought that would change something—"

"I am giving you five seconds to let go of me," John says, because he's not sure how much longer he can contain the fire burning him from the inside out.

And Gordon, who so does love to play with fire, invites himself into the blast radius by closing what little distance remains between them. "Perhaps it will make you think twice about the orders you shout down from the heavens, think twice about the scornful looks you give me— _all_ of us when we can't deal with things like you do because it _is_ different down here—"

"I said get the hell off me, Gordon!" He pushes harder, trying without success to throw him off. Short, sharp breaths hiss through his teeth. " _Now_."

"Why? So you can go back up there and _not_ dwell on it?" Gordon jerks his head toward the sky, exactly where _Five_ is positioned right now. "So you can shut it all off like normal—"

"Don't you think I see what you're trying to do?" If Gordon thinks he's being clever, it's time for a reality check. "The first time you almost lost someone, you spent, what? Sixteen hours crying in Dad's office. Well, I don't need that or you—"

" _Sixteen_ hours?" Gordon protests, swallowing the bait whole—as always. "You're not usually one for gross overstatements."

John isn't sure why that sparks his fuse, but it does. He shoves Gordon and uses the optimum moment of unbalance between them to free his uniform from Gordon's grasp. "All right, twelve, whatever." He doesn't know how long it was and he doesn't care. It doesn't matter—the desired result has been achieved. "You needed him and Scott and whoever else held your hand, but I'm _fine_. I'll deal with this on my own." Which is what he was _trying_ to do before Gordon interrupted. "I don't need you to lure me out—"

"Held my _hand_?" As always, Gordon makes it about himself, when, really, he had nothing to do with what happened today at all. "You know what? Fuck you, John—"

"Oh look, the kids got a grown mouth on him."

"Shut the hell up!" Gordon's hands rise again, but this time John's ready and lets himself be shoved backward. "This isn't about me—"

Well, at least they can agree on that, but, "Isn't it always?"

"No! It's _not_. We're talking about you." Gordon takes another step forward, always pressing the attack, even when there is no battle to be won. "You'd only admit your mistake if she died, wouldn't you? Because that's the kind of person _you_ are—"

Wait, what? "What are you _talking_ about?"

"Everything you do is holy and correct until something really goes to shit, and then down here we're the ones that have to deal with the consequences—"

This, of all things, hurts. "You're walking a damn fine line right now, Gordon."

"Well, it's a line someone needs to walk. What should I be saying instead? All hail the untouchable John?"

"What are you—"

"You're so brave and mighty to feel nothing in the face of death, you must teach me your worldly ways."

The fire in his chest spits long, writhing tongues that lash with frightening precision at his self-control. "Shut _up_ , Gordon—"

"But then you'd have no one to compare yourself no, no one to look down upon and think _pathetic_ , he can't hold himself together—"

"I'd _never_ do that." Not about his brothers. Not when he knows what it's like.

"Apparently that's the new smart and sensible, though, isn't it? Oops, I almost killed a woman, but I didn't. So let's not talk about what I did wrong—"

"For the last time," he says—snarls—whatever, "I did nothing wrong."

"John, you just stood there!" Shadows drape over Gordon's face as the clouds thicken, shrouding them in dying light. "You made a mistake in choosing to stay put, and when damage was caused by that choice, you couldn't handle it. You just stood there doing nothing, watched her like she wasn't even there, like she didn't matter, like it was a shame we'd run into collateral damage—"

It's a decent punch, all things considered. His body is coiled too tight, so speed and recovery time suffer, but muscle memory is an amazing thing, and his fist lands with solid precision exactly where he aims.

He experiences a moment of crisp, clinical satisfaction when Gordon's head snaps sideways as intended and he stumbles back, one pace, two. He twists slightly, trying too late to protect himself as his hand flies up to cover skin that's going to bruise.

A dull ache throbs in John's knuckles, but he loses track of the sensation as patches of infernal heat erupt across his body, because Gordon's wrong, he's wrong, he's _wrong_. She wasn't collateral damage, no one they rescue is ever collateral damage. _Ever_. Is that what Gordon thinks of him?

Is that how he presents himself?

He knows the answer to that, and it is a resounding _yes_.

Gordon straights, stiff and slow. "Look at that, ladies and gentlemen." He turns away, spreads his arms, and even though it's to no one, John finds his heart pounding and his skin crawling as though the entire world has fixed its stare upon his position and is judging him. "He feels something."

"Of course I _feel something_ , you—" The words freeze solid in his mouth as Gordon turns back to him, and John has to swallow shards of ice not even the broiling temperatures of his body can melt when he catches sight of Gordon's eyes, the way they're wide and wet and weary.

This is not the first time he's made Gordon cry. Of course it isn't—they've had countless scraps over the years, both physical and verbal. The intent to wound one another is ingrained within them. But this is different. There's a hollow resignation to Gordon's words, dulling the spark of life in his eyes. Because of him. Because of what he said and did. Because of what he didn't do.

Something deep inside him releases—a tiny exhale, a minuscule shift, the difference between a one and a zero, but it's enough for him to feel the heat of the wind once more. The relief is almost more than he can bear.

Gordon's cradling his cheek again, and John finds himself pushing Gordon's hands away so he can inspect the damage he has inflicted. The external, easy to mend damage, anyway. His jawbone seems intact, although the skin is already tight and hot to the touch. Blood's trickling down from the corner of Gordon's lips, violent red against shock-whitened skin. "Shit, shit, _shit_ , Gordon—"

"It's fine—" But it clearly isn't, because Gordon's clutching his wrist like it's the only thing keeping him on his feet.

"I-I didn't..." A drop of blood drips into his palm, and he pulls away to stare at it. So much blood on his hands today. So much blood. And he has no one left to blame but himself. "Gordon, I..." He swallows around ice that's finally starting to melt. "I'm not what you make me out to be. I'm _not_ , I swear... I didn't mean to..."

The terrible blankness in Gordon's eyes gives way to a faint glimmer that doesn't track with the way his body slumps forward the tiniest bit, but John gets it. "Yeah, well, I probably deserved that—"

The words escape before he can think. "You _more_ than deserved it—"

"Just _talk_ to me, John," Gordon pleads, but he doesn't know what to say. What does Gordon want from him? An apology when he has nothing to apologize for in the first place? A surrender even though that would make him a hypocrite? All the treasures of the ocean set before his feet?

Gordon's right about one thing: being on the ground to participate in a rescue is an experience hardly comparable to when he's on _Five_. He's known that since the first planet-side mission he undertook, and although time and distance serve to blunt memories' jagged corners, he never lets himself forget. Still. Decisions up there are easy, simple. A zero or a one. A yes or no. A left or right. A stop or go. The proverbial flip of a coin, heads or tails, one side or the other.

When lifeblood is pumping hard against hands desperate to stem the flow, there are no easy, simple decisions. Everything happens in the moment, drawing heavily on ingrained training and prior experiences. He thought he was ready to handle any sort of rescue, and up until today he was right. He just... there was a moment of real, grounding, terrifying realization that he held the power of life and death in his hands, and it was a power he didn't want to hold. Not with such intimacy.

So he froze up. Not for long, not for more than a few seconds, not even long enough to impact whether they could've escaped the cavern via Gordon's suggested tunnel or not, but it happened.

It wasn't a mistake. Not exactly.

But Gordon's staring at him with eyes still glistening with excess moisture, waiting for an answer. Gordon shifts his jaw, and he reaches up to kneed his fingers into the temple above the beginnings of a bruise.

Punching Gordon wasn't a mistake either, but that definitely shouldn't have happened. He has no excuse.

The heavy clouds above their heads finally give birth, spattering them with rain. Droplets sizzle against John's skin, evaporating with curls of steam that draw away the final dregs of the angry heat that he's refused to release.

Well. It's as good a place as any to start.

"You were right," he murmurs, using his thumb to wipe the trail of red from Gordon's mouth. All blood spilled today deserves to stain his hands, not his brother's face. "I was wrong about the rain. That makes two mistakes today."

He always forgets how easy it is to make things up to Gordon, but sure enough, he gets a tiny but genuine smile. "Three, actually." Mischief gleams, lightening his eyes another shade. "Scott's going to kill you when he gets home."

Sure, he can try. But that's a problem for another hour. "He'll probably thank me."

A fresh bead of blood escapes Gordon's lip when he snorts. "Or he might get jealous."

A smile tugs at the corners of John's mouth. Probably. Gordon's one of those kids that's always looking for attention, even if it's the wrong kind. He doesn't like to let off steam on his own unless it's in the pool, and some days even the water isn't enough of a release. No wonder he sought him out.

Perhaps he was a bit hasty in judging Gordon's motives. Perhaps Gordon needed to come down here more than he needed Gordon to join him. Perhaps it's time they approach this from a place of mutual footing. "You know what I could really do with now? That drink."

"Yeah," Gordon says with a faint huff that might be laughter. "And I could do with some ice."

As though conjured by his words, a gust of cool wind hits John—without a doubt it's cool, this time he can tell—and he shudders as he watches Gordon use the back of his hand to wipe one eye and then the other. This is not how today was supposed to go. It was supposed to be an easy rescue, a simple one. There shouldn't have been any mistakes, there shouldn't have been any blood, there shouldn't have been any reason for them to fight.

But sometimes, he thinks as he shoves sandy, broken glass aside so Gordon can walk without cutting his feet to shreds, sometimes that's just the way the coin falls.


End file.
